


how wonderful life is

by iamthemagicks



Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: 1920s, Gen, Like Moulin Rouge, M/M, The Stage, performers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:09:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25681102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamthemagicks/pseuds/iamthemagicks
Summary: The curtains open and they saunter on stage together to the music. The crowd cheers and hollers, calls out their names. Merriell can barely hear them over the sound of the piano and violins. Quickly, he scans the faces, until he finds Eugene in his usual spot, third row, center. He’s wiped the lipstick from his face and put on proper clothes, but his hair is a wild mess and his cheeks are flushed red. As promised, Merriell blows him that kiss before moving across the stage.
Relationships: Merriell "Snafu" Shelton/Eugene Sledge, R. V. Burgin/Florence Risely
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14
Collections: Sledgefu Week 2020





	how wonderful life is

**Author's Note:**

> This originally started out as a Moulin Rouge AU a million years ago. You'll see bits and pieces of it, but it's not an exact AU.

Eugene lies sprawled out on the bed like a giant cat, scratching at his belly, a look of sated satisfaction across his pretty face. Merriell watches him from the mirror of his vanity. That calm look on Eugene’s face is uncommon, the poor thing is always fretting about something. 

“Stop staring at me,” Eugene says, rolling to his side, propping his head on his hand. 

They make eye contact briefly in the mirror before Merriell goes back to prepping for showtime. He’s already caked powder onto his face and now he searches for a stick of charcoal. “I ain’t starin’,” he grunts, finding what he wants.

“I can feel it,” Eugene replies with a yawn. “Your dark, moon-grip stare.”

Merriell laughs. “I like it when you use words from your books to describe me.” He finds his charcoal and leans closer to the mirror and begins to run it along his eyelids. 

He hears Eugene shifting in the sheets, going to lay on his back; he catches the movement in the mirror. And he can picture the look on Eugene’s face, knitted brows and closed eyes, a little twist to his pouty mouth. He has oddly straight teeth that Merriell loves to see when he smiles. 

“I ain’t the fortune teller,” Merriell says, “if you’re thinkin’ somethin’ you gotta tell me.”

Eugene stretches and Merriell hears the bones in Eugene’s back cracking. He sits up and drapes one of Merriell’s see-through robes over his shoulders. “Why do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“The makeup, the costumes.” Eugene runs a feathered boa through his fingers. “You’re very handsome.”

Merriell rubs the charcoal for that smoky look. “You’re not so bad yourself.” His sharp features and dark eyes, pearl-pink skin and the thick auburn hair that on some days was brown, and others dark red. 

“Come on, Mer.” Eugene stands from the bed and approaches, tying the robe around his waist. Not that it hides his body; the material is sheer, meant to be seen through. He stands behind Merriell and runs his fingers through Merriell’s thick, curly hair. “You don’t need all the glitz and glam.”

Merriell leans into the touch, cat-like himself. He momentarily loses focus of his current task, wanting nothing more than to spend the rest of the night with Eugene’s fingers in his hair. He quickly comes to his senses and tilts forward, just enough to break Eugene’s rhythm. “It’s part of show business, _cher_. All in good fun.” He pulls open the creaky drawer of the vanity, the smell of perfume and incense rolling out as he digs through the bottles and tubes of lipstick. 

“Is it?” Eugene asks, a quiver in his voice. He bends over to kiss on top of Snafu’s head, hands running up and down his bare shoulders, scratching. 

The low light of the setting sun catches in the mirror, it paints the room a gauzy, orange and yellow, like a field of poppies, which is perfect, because Eugene makes Merriel feel drunk and dreamy in every possible way. 

Merriell finds the lipstick he wants and puts it on himself, watching Eugene the whole time. “You’d be awful pretty with this.” He lifts the lipstick up, offering to Eugene. 

“I wouldn’t know how,” Eugene says, taking Merriell by the wrist.

“I’ll teach you.” He twists out of Eugene’s grasp to pull him down to sit on the edge of the bed. Merriell turns and grabs Eugene’s chin, holding him in place. Fear and anticipation flicker in Eugene’s forest brown eyes. Merriell grins as he runs the lipstick along Eugene’s mouth, staying perfectly in line of his pouty lips. 

When he’s satisfied with the work he’s done, he manhandles Eugene around to look in the mirror to see. “There you go, _cher_. Very pretty.”

Eugene looks at himself with the cherry red lips. He blinks quickly, those long lashes fluttering like a bird’s wing. “Pretty?” he says back with a raised eyebrow. 

Merriell chuckles. “Very pretty. It’s okay to like it.” He brushes blush over his own cheekbones. “But you’re not as pretty as me.”

“Of course not.” Eugene touches at the corners of his mouth and then looks at the red on his fingertips. 

“ _Venez ici_ ,” Merriell says and Eugene obeys, leaning forward. “ _Ma cherie, mon coeur_.” He threads his fingers through Eugene’s hair before pulling him close for a filthy kiss, rubbing and smearing the lipstick from his mouth. Through the sheer material of the robe, Merriell sees Eugene growing hard. “Ah, ah,” he says and pulls away.

Eugene groans. “Please.”

“Curtain goes up in five minutes.” Merriell stands, zipping up his trousers. “You can touch yourself, in fact, I encourage you.” He walks around his room grabbing props and pieces of costume. A black top hat that he sets on his head, a black and bejeweled corset that he slings over his shoulder, a matching silk scarf that he drapes around his neck. He stops at the bed where Eugene sits, leaning back on his palms. The lipstick is smeared filthy across his mouth and chin and the robe hangs off one shoulder, making Eugene look like a proper fucked out whore. “It’ll make you last longer for me tonight.” He grins and bends down for another kiss.

“You’re awful,” Eugene mutters against Merriell’s mouth. “I’ll think about someone else.”

Merriell laughs and pushes Eugene backward to lay flat on the mattress. “Ain’t nobody get you off like I can.” 

Eugene laughs and shakes his head in agreement. “I’ll be out in time for your big number.”

“I’ll blow you a kiss,” he promises before walking out of the room. From across the way, he can hear his director yelling for him, and screaming idle threats, like he’ll be fired or pushed around to being a chorus singer. 

He walks through catacombs and hallways to get to the stage area where everyone is running around like chickens, adding finishing touches to costumes and makeup, or grabbing last-minute props. 

“Are you kidding me?” his cousin berates him from across the dressing area as she walks to him, hands on her hips, eyes narrowed. “You wait until the last second so you can keep fucking your boyfriend and you mess up your makeup.” She digs in his pockets for the lipstick before taking his chin in her hand. 

Flo is his warden and his best friend. 

“It’s perfect,” he says as he pulls from her grasp. He hands her the corset instead. “Lace me up.”

She rolls her eyes, but does as he asks, threading the ribbon through the hooks on the back. “The boys are very sore that you’ve stopped taking clients.”

“They’ll live.” Ever since Eugene had crawled into his bed, Merriell stopped selling himself, taking the best courtesan off the market, so he’d been told. But he couldn’t stand the thought of being with anyone else, not anymore. He’s also getting older, nearing thirty, and is not long for that kind of work much longer.

But the stage calls his name, holds his attention. He can live and work there for the rest of his days. 

Flo tightens the corset and adjusts the hat on his head, the tie around his neck. “Your beau going to be out there?” She licked her thumb and ran it over his left eyebrow.

“Always is.” He gives her a tiny smile, his heart still full of butterflies when he thinks of Eugene in the audience watching him. 

She runs the tie through her fingers and then over his chin. 

“Two minutes people!” Burgie yells, walking through his workers. “I’m going to ban that writer if he keeps making you this late,” he says as he passes Merriell. 

“You don’t have the balls.” He looks to Flo. “Am I ready, _ma petit_?” 

She rolls her eyes and pulls on her own hat. “Perfect. Shall we?”

The curtains open and they saunter on stage together to the music. The crowd cheers and hollers, calls out their names. Merriell can barely hear them over the sound of the piano and violins. Quickly, he scans the faces, until he finds Eugene in his usual spot, third row, center. He’s wiped the lipstick from his face and put on proper clothes, but his hair is a wild mess and his cheeks are flushed red. As promised, Merriell blows him that kiss before moving across the stage.

*

Eugene Sledge came into Merriell’s life on a rainy night in September, thanks to Flo. Merriell had been on stage, his last number of the night, and he noticed Flo shuffling about backstage with an unfamiliar red-head, dressed in stuffy trousers and an equally stuffy shirt. He paid them no mind, his cousin took just as many clients as he did, though she usually kept her eyes on more well-off patrons.

He finished his song to applause and cheer, thriving off the attention. He picked a rose off the floor as he walked off stage. 

“ _Gaffe_ ,” she called, grabbing his naked, sweaty arm. _Gaffe. Goofball._ Something she'd called him all their lives.

He huffed, breaking her grasp. “I just finished.” He gestured behind him and the stagehands changing sets and cleaning. “Can’t you wait?”

The redhead stood behind her, hands in his pockets, eyes on the ground. “I found us a new writer,” she said, tugging on the man’s arm. 

Merriell grabbed a towel off the table by the wall and wiped across his neck and face, smearing his makeup. “You just found a writer wandering the streets?” He made eye contact with the shy author.

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” he said timidly. “I’ve seen your show before. You’re amazing.” 

Merriell raises an eyebrow and continues to wipe sweat from his body. “I don’t recognize you.”

“You can see people from the stage?”

“If they sit close enough.” He dropped the towel and started walking towards his room with Flo and the writer following. “Flo,” he groaned.

“He’s not just some wafe I picked up off the streets.” She pulled the writer forward and held his chin in her hands. He quirked his eyebrows at her and glanced around the room, unsure of where to look. “This is Monsieur Sledge, the playwright from Hannibal, Missouri.”

Monsieur Sledge put his hand on Flo’s wrist in an attempt to free his face, but her fingers were strong as ice. “I’m from Alabama,” he clarified. 

Merriell grabbed a rag off his vanity and wiped across his face, taking off sweat and makeup. He inspected the befuddled writer being held in place by his cousin. He looked as unsure as a colt, doe-eyed, hair a wild mess. A nice jacket hung over his left arm and he held a suitcase in the other. “I ain’t never heard of him,” Merriell answered before opening a draw and digging for cigarettes.

“You’re such a _philistin_ ,” she spat, releasing Sledge. He rubbed at his chin. 

Merriell laughed, plucking a cigarette from the pack, letting dangle from his lips as he continued rummaging the drawer. “I’m the philistine?” He slammed that drawer shut and went for the next one, shuffling makeup tubes and perfume bottles about. Then he patted down his trousers and even checked the inside of his top hat.

“Here.” Sledge stumbled forward, catching himself, and offered Merriell a gold-plated lighter. Merriell looked from the lighter, then to Sledge before leaning forward for Sledge to light it for him. He kept a close eye as Sledge flicked open the top and produced a flame. 

“Thanks,” Merriell said, blowing smoke out of his nose. “If he’s such a great playwright, what’s he doin’ down here?”

Sledge pocketed the lighter. “There was some...unpleasantness with some people at the paper. I had to leave.” 

Taking a second glance at Sledge from top to bottom, Merriell leaned against the vanity, crossing his arms against his stomach. Someone with a past, and someone who looked like a goddamn Sunday school virgin. “What kinda trouble could you have gotten into?” he asked slowly, purposefully licking his lips before wrapping them around the tip of the cigarette. A pretty boy is a pretty boy.

“Writer’s got big imaginations. I can get into all sorts of trouble.” The air between them begins to heat up, and Merriell knew he was going to have fun with this one.

“ _Bon_ ,” he said, breaking the look. “So, why are you botherin’ me? Go ask Burgie.” He turned away to find another wet rag for his face. He watched Flo and Sledge in the mirror.

Flo reached around him for the cigarettes then snatched the lighter right from Sledge’s hand. “For some reason, he cares what you think.”

“‘Cause no one can sing Cole Porter like I can.”

She muttered something in annoyance before walking away, calling for Sledge to follow her. Snafu heard the clacking of her heels getting further away; he caught Sledge’s eye in the mirror again.

“Eugene,” he said.

“Eh?”

“It’s just Eugene. No Monsieur needed.” 

Merriell exhaled through his nose again. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

*

From then on out, he started seeing Eugene after every show, hanging around backstage with Flo, or sitting in a cramped corner with a dinky travel typewriter. He sat there like a gargoyle, pipe sticking out from his mouth. One night Merriell came up to Eugene’s spot, a sweaty mess from the show, and leaned against the makeshift desk.

“Got a smoke?” he asked.

Eugene dug around his pockets a moment before coming up empty and shrugged. “Not a cigarette guy.”

“That’s fine.” Merriell looked around at stagehands and performers looking for props and setting up for the next number. “You always sit back here and write?”

Eugene typed as he answered. “I like hearing the music.”

“Don’t look too comfortable.” Merriell eventually found a cigarette in his back pocket. It was old, the tobacco stale and bitter, but it was better than nothing. He exhaled above their heads and leaned a little closer. “Why don’t you work up in my room? You can hear the music and I got a desk I don’t hardly use.”

The typing stopped momentarily and Eugene looked up, dark brown eyes full of wonder, smoke coming out of his nose. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Ain’t a bother. I won’t be up there.”

“I won’t see your performance.” 

Merriell swallowed and leaned closer on the desk. “You like watchin’ me perform?”

Eugene nodded and took the pipe from his mouth and licked his lips. “Sure. I’m even thinking of putting you in one of my plays.”

That piqued Merriell’s interest. “Really?”

“You have a unique look,” Eugene explained. “You’re also very handsome.”

Merriell’s eyelids fluttered uncharacteristically before he took a long drag. “Well, don’t get too attached. I cost a lovely fee.” 

The brightness in Eugene’s eyes dimmed a little and he eased back into the rickety chair in which he sat. “I’m sure.” He cleared his throat, put the pipe back in his mouth, and went back to the typewriter. 

“So, tomorrow night, go ahead and come up before showtime. Get yourself set up. Don’t want that pretty little neck of yours to go crooked.” 

Eugene smiled, but Merriell scuttled away before Eugene could properly respond. He did have an appointment that night. A young and handsome gambler from New Orleans who’s had his eye on Merriell for quite some time. Merriell liked it when his clients were attractive, it felt less like work. 

As he walked through the halls back towards his room, he passed Burgie and Flo, sharing a cigarette. “Your gambler is waiting downstairs,” Flo said. 

“Just need a shower.” 

As he washed and readied for Mr. New Orleans, Merriell tried not to think of Eugene and his puppy-brown eyes watching him on stage, or the sound of his typewriter.

*

A week later, Eugene had set up his little writing corner in Merriell’s room on a neglected desk near the deck. “This is fancy,” Eugene said, carrying in his typewriter. Merriell closed the door behind him. 

“Burgie owed me,” Merriell answered. He sat on the bed cross-legged to watch Eugene set up the desk. Eugene ran his fingers along the wood and checked the drawers, finding loose sheets of paper and some containers of ink. He looked like a nervous foul. 

Eugene walked to the window, pulling back the lacy curtains. The view from his room was spectacular, overlooking the city, lights like diamonds. Sunsets were beautiful and mornings looked like a Van Gogh painting. 

“I bet the view’s great,” Eugene said, turning to set down his typewriter. 

“It’s amazing,” Merriell agreed. 

“Do you bring your clients up here?” he asked, sheepishly.

Merriell nodded. “Most of the time. You want a smoke?” He reached into his bedside table and pulled out two and lit them. Eugene accepted the cigarette, sitting on the edge of the bed. He still looked out the deck windows. “You spend a lot of time in your head,” Merriell observed.

Eugene looked back while taking a puff. “Yeah. I get that a lot. Quiet upbringing.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Merriell said, scratching at his neck. “You can come closer, I don’t bite.”

Eugene moves up the bed as requested. “That’s too bad.”

And then they’re kissing, cigarettes crushed into a glass ashtray as Eugene moved himself over Merriell’s body. He kissed like a starving man, like someone who’d been locked up his whole life and was finally free. “Do you want me?” Eugene asked, nervous. “Like I want you?”

Merriell worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Ever since Eugene arrived, he’d done his best not to think of him. How could he be a decent courtesan if he fell in love? He wouldn’t make that mistake again. But Eugene was something else.

“‘Course I do,” Merriell said, arching off the bed to chase Eugene’s mouth. “You’re gonna be bad for business, _cher_. I can tell.”

Eugene answered with a smirk and one eyebrow raised as he worked open the zipper of Merriell’s pants.

*

After spending a long weekend in bed with Eugene, Merriell decided he never wanted anyone else. He had a good cache of money saved in jars and pockets all around his room, and as long as he had the stage, he had a job and a home. 

“Don’t give up your job for me,” Eugene told him one night. Merriell sat in front of the vanity, brushing glitter into his hair. 

“What can I say, Gene? You’ve ruined me for other men.” He said it as a joke, but meant it from the bottom of his heart. They fit together in some sort of cosmic way; he felt more comfortable and more himself when he was around Eugene than anyone else, even Burgie or Flo. 

His gambler was quite upset that Merriell stopped taking clients, so much so that he tried to ruin the theater with vicious rumors. But everyone who frequented The Windmill knew about the courtesans and sex workers. That was one of the high points of the establishment. The Windmill went on, making just as much money, and every day Merriell came closer to confessing his dying love for Eugene. 

Eugene lies on the bed, tangled in the silk sheets, clothes thrown about the floor. The room smells heady, an intoxicating mix of sex and honeysuckle perfume. He runs a finger down his chest, over a scratch left by Merriell, bright pink against Eugene’s lily-white skin. “I don’t want to be in the way of your future...or your money.”

Glitter falls into his face as Merriell laughs. “My future.” He shakes his head and brushes the glitter out of his eyelashes. “Do you know why I perform here, Eugene?”

Eugene shrugs, eyes cast down. “Because you speak French.”

“You’re such a smart ass,” Merriell grumbles, getting up from the vanity and moving to the bed. He crawls onto the mattress and into Eugene’s personal space. Eugene’s body stiffens, a challenge, and chews on his cheeks to bite back his grin. But Merriell always wins this game, pushing Eugene against his chest to get him to lay flat on his back. He’s almost a blinding brightness against the jungle green sheets. “I’m here because I can perform how I want. Dance, sing, wear what I want. No stuffy director or anyone complaining about decency.” He puts a hand softly against Eugene’s soft neck. Eugene’s heart flutters like a bird under his palm. “Everything else...the johns...that’s because I was good at it and I don’t want that anymore. I only want you.”

Eugene’s bony chest rises and falls with a deep breath. He’s finally making eye contact with Merriell, dark eyes the color of the woods at night. Not quite green, not quite brown. He opens his mouth, and licks his lips, arching his body to push against Merriell’s. “I’ve never wanted anything else the way I want you,” Eugene admits. Glitter falls into his face and he scrunches his nose. “Ain’t no body ever wanted me before.”

“You got nothin’ to worry about, _cher_.” Merriell gives Eugene a slow and filthy kiss, hand tangled in his soft hair. “Alright?”

Eugene swallows and nods, his heart still racing against Merriell’s hand. “You’ve got a show,” he mutters. 

Merriell is half-tempted to stay in bed, but he’s a good performer and won’t leave his audience waiting. “Come watch me?”

“I’ll be up front.”

He plants a soft kiss on Eugene’s lips, and then down to his neck where his hand had been. His own heart is fluttering in his throat, threatening to fly out of his mouth.

*

“I wrote something about you,” Eugene says one morning from his desk, happily typing away. “Or for you. However you want to look at it.”

Merriell is still in bed, wrapped in silk, the sun coming in through the curtains, right across his face. He groans and rolls from it. He hears Eugene chuckle and continues typing. “What is it?” Merriell asks.

“It’s a play.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “You wrote me a play?” He’s only mildly interested in dragging himself out of bed. 

Eugene keeps typing as if he hadn’t even heard Merriell. “A wonderful performer and his rise to fame.” _clack clack clack_ go the keys. “Some parts are a little overdramatic, but I think that you’ll make it work.”

The sun in Merriell’s eyes vexes him, and he rolls to get away from it, onto Eugene’s side of the bed. The pillow smells like his shampoo and aftershave; Merriell presses his face into the silk case of the pillow to get a deep inhale. He’d never been more intoxicated by another person, body and soul.

“I had a dream last night,” Eugene continues. _Clack clack clack_. “I got up with the sun for the light.” He gestures. “I had to get it all down. It was like I was watching it in my head, the stage, actions, dialogue. I haven’t written like this since Hannibal.” 

Once, Eugene had a rather lucrative writing career in the big city. But he became bold with his material and an indecency charge sent him flying down into the swampy and luminous world of New Orleans. 

Merriell rubs his eyes and finally lifts his head to look across the room at Eugene and his desk, settled in the corner, shoulders slouched, fingers flying over the keys like hummingbirds. The light catches slightly in his hair, making it copper and fiery, his skin bright and pale as milk. He works in a frenzy wearing only a pair of loose-fitting trousers, a full ashtray near his hand. Merriell can only imagine what goes on inside a writer’s mind and how it flows onto paper. 

_Ding!_ Eugene’s reached the end of the page and he quickly exchanges it for another. _Clack clack clack._

Merriell stretches and yawns before getting up from the mattress and making his way across the room to Eugene. He bends down to kiss the top of Eugene’s head and to run a hand down the nape of his neck, over those slouched shoulders. “Does it have a happy ending?”

Eugene snorts. “Of course, it does. Who comes to the theater for sad shows?”

“Half of Shakespeare’s audience.” He reaches past Eugene for his pack of cigarettes and gold plated lighter. “Do we have a happy ending?”

Suddenly, Eugene stops his typing to look up at Merriell, his face as serious as a heart attack. “Of course, we do.” He takes Merriell by the forearm to press a kiss to his wrist. “I ain’t going anywhere.” 

Merriell’s fluttering heart gets the better of him, here in the golden light of morning, the room scented with perfume and smoke, heady from sex and summer heat. It’s so damnably picturesque. “I love you,” he says, quietly. Hoping it’s too quiet for Eugene to hear. 

But Eugene smiles widely and kisses Merriell’s wrist again, licking at his veins. “I love you,” he answers. His face glows and he looks like an angel. “Let me keep working for a while longer, okay?”

Merriell lights his cigarette and exhales, his mouth curled into a smirk. “Have at it.” He ambles to the window and pushes it open, letting in the breeze. From the fifth floor, he can see the whole city laid out before him. Women are opening their shops, the smell of morning bread and sweets wafts on the wind. It ruffles his hair a bit. He sits on the sill and lets one leg dangle down, pressed against the brick of the building. 

The nest of birds in the gutter sing to each other and Merriell sighs contently, Eugene typing in the corner. 

_Clack clack clack._


End file.
